


Censorship

by silentfort



Category: MASH (TV)
Genre: Bisexual B. J. Hunnicutt, Bisexual Hawkeye Pierce, Blow Jobs, Communication, First Kiss, First Time, Hand Jobs, Implied/Referenced Domestic Violence, Letters, M/M, Mutual Pining, Polyfidelity
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-30
Updated: 2019-07-30
Packaged: 2020-05-31 03:57:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,325
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19417999
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/silentfort/pseuds/silentfort
Summary: “I noticed -” BJ coughs, clears his throat of dust. “When you’re chasing nurses. You stop when they say they’re married.”Hawkeye wrenches them around a pothole, teeth gritted. He’s surprised it was that obvious. He struggles to remember the last time he made eyes at someone and actually wanted her to say yes. More and more, it’s felt like a front. Maybe because it’s been one.“What can I say?” he gives an exaggerated shrug, “I’m a gentleman.”





	1. Chapter 1

“Hey Hawk?”

Hawkeye doesn’t look away from the road, too busy wrestling the jeep for control to do more than shout back, “Yeah?”

There’s a pause, filled only with the choke of dust and the roar of the engine. After a moment he spares a glance sideways, sees BJ staring straight ahead as he grips the seat. His open fatigues snap in the wind, the faded pink undershirt rumpled across his chest.

“Is my driving that bad?” he means it jokingly, but volume strips the nuance out of his voice.

“Just a question I wanted to ask.” The words come back to him somehow thin, the tone impossible to read over the engine and the wind. BJ could be asking what Hawkeye wants to do first when they got to Seoul. Or to stop leaving his socks on the floor. Or -

Hawkeye catches another glimpse of that white knuckle grip on the seat.

“Yeah?”

“I noticed -” BJ coughs, clears his throat of dust. “When you’re chasing nurses. You stop when they say they’re married.”

Hawkeye wrenches them around a pothole, teeth gritted. He’s surprised it was that obvious. He struggles to remember the last time he made eyes at someone and actually wanted her to say yes. More and more, it’s felt like a front. Maybe because it’s been one.

“What can I say?” he gives an exaggerated shrug, “I’m a gentleman.”

More silence. That is to say, the jeep rattles and snarls, loose stones pinging off the undercarriage like… he tries not to think what like. The sun is high, the wind is cool, if the jeep weren’t shattering the countryside peace it’d probably be a beautiful day.

“It’s just,” BJ seems determined to get something off his chest, “it doesn’t always stop other people.”

“True,” Hawkeye frowns, remembering what feels like years and years ago, how Trapper and even Henry had always had someone on their arm. And of course Frank - but holding Frank up in comparison to anyone is an insult to the whole human race. “Guess I’m not other people.”

“That’s it?” BJ sounds like he could be annoyed. But of course, it’s hard to tell.

“I don’t know,” Hawkeye shrugs again, wishing they weren’t having this conversation at 110 decibels. Or at all. “I figure it’s like spies.”

“What?”

“Spies!” He chances taking one hand from the wheel, gesticulates widely. “If they’ll cheat on someone else with me, then what’s to stop them cheating on me with someone else?”

“Right.”

He can feel BJ staring at him, but doesn’t dare look. The dust fills his throat, the sun is in his eyes, and he can only think of one rainy night in the Swamp when Trapper had asked him, in an insistent whisper, much the same question. He hadn’t answered then, had given some glib non-reply and poured another drink. Trapper had been convinced that on some level, Hawkeye was judging him. Had been concerned that Hawkeye might turn him in unless he somehow could be equally compromised.

Trapper had no fucking idea.

“That makes sense,” BJ yells. Hawkeye dares a split second glance, and is startled to see him look almost relaxed, one arm braced on the dash, letting his body sway with the jouncing of the jeep. “It’s about trust, right?”

Hawkeye clenches his hands on the wheel. “Right.”

***

They have a quiet evening, by the usual standards of a 72 hour R&R. (“I want you getting more R than R, if you catch my drift,” Potter had said meaningfully. “Don’t come back here smelling like a bull that got loose in a liquor store; get some sleep!”) Hawkeye doesn’t recognise what’s served for dinner, but it’s so much better than what’s served in the mess tent he doesn’t care. Even better, _they’re_ not in the mess tent, and all that awaits them after eating is a tipsy stumble back to the hotel. Another two whole days before he has to face the war again. BJ unlocks the hotel room door and Hawkeye slouches three steps in in to collapse on the bed he’d claimed earlier, throwing one arm over his face.

“Now this, my friend, this is decadence if ever it existed!”

BJ chuckles softly, turning on the bedside lamp and fiddling with his suitcase. “If you say so,” his voice sounds close in the small room, his own narrow bed barely an arm’s length away. “I figure true decadence wouldn’t let my feet still dangle over the end of the mattress.”

“Come now, let’s be realistic. We drove to Seoul, we didn’t climb a beanstalk.”

Another soft laugh, and the whisper of paper on paper. Hawkeye sneaks a look over to the other bed and sees BJ cradling one of Peg’s letters in his broad hands, smiling faintly at the words. When he notices Hawkeye looking at him he glances down, colouring.

“Hey, you’re allowed to bring her with you,” Hawkeye closes his eyes, wriggling into the stiff mattress. The bedframe creaks and the pillow is flat but it doesn’t smell like mud or gin or old blood and he is so, _so_ grateful. “God knows if someone wrote me that many letters I’d get them bound into my own bible and carry them everywhere. What’s she up to now, seventy something?”

“Eighty two. Another three came in the last mail call.”

“Good grief,” Hawkeye blinks, stares at BJ. “Sounds like you’ve got some catching up to do. Need any help composing a reply?”

“Actually, I -” BJ hesitates, seems to try again. “I wanted to ask you something.”

Oh no, they’re not going to have another conversation like on the road, are they? Hawkeye swallows, but makes a broad ‘go right ahead’ gesture.

“I’ve got this friend -”

And Hawkeye stifles a smile, wondering how much of a boy scout BJ really must be if he thinks he hasn’t heard the ‘my friend’ story before -

“- and I’m pretty sure he’s interested in someone.”

He tries to reply, makes no sound, tries again. “Oh?”

BJ turns the folded pages over in his hands, very gently. One foot is bouncing restlessly. “The thing is, this someone is married.”

Hawkeye frowns. Was the thing in the jeep this morning a way of BJ looking for permission? Was he interested in someone who was married? Or was someone pressuring BJ to cheat on Peg? Hawkeye finds his hand curling into a fist and takes a deep, careful breath, forcing himself to relax.

“Go on.”

“It’s not as bad as all that, though,” BJ hurries on, “‘cause it’s like you said, it’s about trust, right? So what if the married person, what if their spouse was okay with it? What if they liked the other person too?”

“Which other person?”

“My friend.”

“Wait, is your friend the married person? Or are they married too?”

BJ smiles, shakes his head, even though there’s still a furrow of worry across his too-tall forehead. “Oh no, my friend is very much single.”

“Okay, let me get this straight,” Hawkeye levers himself up to sit on the edge of the bed, elbows on his knees as he ticks people off on his fingers. “One: your friend, who is single. Two: the person they’re interested in. Three: that person’s spouse, who is apparently a very modern thinker.” He frowns at his hand, realising that he’s yet to come across a pronoun here. Is BJ saying - but he squishes that thought quickly, and hard.

BJ takes a deep breath, and abruptly holds out the letter. “Here. Third paragraph down.”

Hawkeye doesn’t move for a long moment. He’d written a brief note to Peggy himself, when he sent her the tape he’d recorded for BJ’s anniversary. She’d sent him a reply that, judging from the thickness of the envelope, was rather longer. He’s never opened it.

He reaches out and takes the letter as gingerly as if it were a donated organ. As well it might be. BJ is watching his face. Sitting on the edge of his bed, they’re almost too close for comfort. His eyes are too blue in the dull beige room.

Hawkeye looks down.

_I’ve been trying to think of who Hawkeye reminds me of, and I think I finally have it. Do you remember that diner we went to, when I was seven months pregnant with Erin? The waiter that looked after our table was so charming, I think he and Hawkeye must be very much alike._

He looks up, trying for a smile. “Didn’t know I had a doppelganger in California.”

“Actually he had blond hair and freckles,” BJ’s mouth twists a little, his expression unreadable.

Now Hawkeye is totally confused. BJ takes the letter back with both hands, folding it gently. When he speaks, there’s a rough edge to his voice that Hawkeye has rarely heard.

“It was late, but Peg had had this craving all day for pickles and a chocolate shake, and we didn’t have anything like that at home, so we got in the car and I drove. Eventually we came to this little place that I couldn’t find again in daylight if you paid me, and she ordered half the menu while I sat there with black coffee and tried not to fall asleep. I must have been tired. I let my guard down.”

His voice is soft and earnest, and Hawkeye suddenly feels they’re sitting far too close but he doesn’t dare move. His hands are clasped together tightly. His breath feels like it’s trembling in his throat.

“She noticed. She didn’t say anything until we’d gotten home, of course, but she noticed. The waiter hadn’t done anything out of the ordinary but, while Peg had been talking, apparently I… was watching him,” BJ looks down finally, and Hawkeye snatches a breath. “I’d been watching him the whole time like a kid at a school dance who’s too shy to talk to the girls. And she noticed. But the thing is, Hawk,” he looks up again, eyes huge and dark and voice ragged, “Hawk… she didn’t mind.”

Hawkeye swallows.

BJ sets the letter down on the bed and pushes himself to his feet and Hawkeye leans back quickly, afraid of what might happen right now if they touch. But BJ turns to pace back and forth across the room, like he has to unravel this secret step by step. “I couldn’t believe it, I was so afraid. I kept thinking she’d come to her senses, would realise that she’d made a mistake. But she was okay with it, with me. And not just that,” he throws out a hand, glancing back at Hawkeye wide eyed, “she said once that it was a pity we couldn’t find the place again, a pity we couldn’t all have dinner together. _The three of us_.”

Hawkeye is barely breathing. It feels like his heart is in his throat. Is this about -?

BJ doesn’t look at him. He’s staring at the letter, the plain white paper on the faded brown bedspread. “I said to her, _You must be joking_. And she said, _Only a little. I’d rather it was someone I had a chance to know, first. Someone that I liked too_.”

He looks at Hawkeye. His chest is rising and falling too fast, even from here Hawkeye can almost see the pulse thrumming under his jaw. He points at the letter, his hand trembling.

“Read the end. Read how she signed it.”

Hawkeye reaches that short distance to the other bed, takes up the pages (folded and refolded so many times they’re nearly falling into pieces), and turns to the last one.

_… I can hardly wait until you’re home again, darling. And I can hardly wait to meet Hawkeye, I feel he’s part of our family already. Please give him my love._

“Beej,” he says softly, “this might not mean -”

“It does.” BJ’s voice is a thread. “The army reads our mail, Hawk, how much more clearly can she say it?”

“I -” he stares at the letter, at swirls of blue ink on white. He wonders suddenly what on earth she said in the letter to him. “I don’t know what to say.”

“Tell me I haven’t just made a huge mistake,” there’s a note of panic in BJ’s voice, and Hawkeye’s head snaps up to look at him. He’s frozen in the middle of the floor, hands visibly trembling, face pale. Hawkeye drops the letter on the bed and strides across to him, wrapping him up in a hug before he can think about it too long and start panicking himself.

“It’s okay, it’s okay,” he soothes, and BJ drops his forehead to Hawkeye’s shoulder and shudders, taking a long, uneven breath as his hands come to rest, still shaking, on Hawkeye’s hips. 

“Do you know how long I’ve had that letter, Hawk?”

He rubs a hand down the length of BJ’s back, over and again. “No, how long?”

“It’s the sixth one she sent me.”

Hawkeye’s hand falters, he blinks. Letter number six, of eighty-two. Months. More than months. Over a year ago. “Why didn’t you say anything?”

“I wasn’t sure. If she meant it. How I felt. Or…”

“Or of me?”

Silent, he nods, face still turned against the side of Hawkeye’s neck. Hawkeye finds himself shivering at the whisper of breath on the exposed skin of his throat.

“But then you both put that tape together for our anniversary. And I know lots of people helped, but it was your idea.” BJ’s hands slide under the hem of Hawkeye’s shirt, cool against the small of his back. “And afterwards, when Margaret asked me to dance?” he lifts his head, looks down at Hawkeye from that handbreadth’s difference in height. The dim light casts shadows across his face and his eyes are too bright, too close, he feels like standing next to a lit firework and Hawkeye can’t stop shaking. “I wished it were you.”

And he leans forward, tilts his head, watching Hawkeye to see if he’ll move. Hawkeye rises on his toes, lifts a hand to the back of BJ’s head and kisses him, just kisses him, while distantly he’s aware he’s trying not to panic. There are too many ways this could go wrong. They’re in a warzone, in an army that doesn’t look too kindly on this sort of thing, and what are they meant to do when they go home? Or even when they get back to the Swamp? Sit Charles down and tell him the facts of life?

BJ flattens one broad hand across Hawkeye’s spine, lifts the other to trace his cheek, his jaw, and Hawkeye lets his eyes fall shut. BJ’s mouth is soft and warm, his moustache oddly pleasant, and when he nips gently at Hawkeye’s lower lip Hawkeye swallows a moan. It’s been so long since anyone touched him, let alone someone who _cared_.

He fists his hand in BJ’s hair and BJ groans softly, the sound rumbling up through his chest as he pulls Hawkeye even closer.

“Um,” Hawkeye gasps. and BJ’s eyes fly open.

“I’m sorry, did I do something wrong?”

“No, no,” Hawkeye runs his fingers through BJ’s hair again, distractedly admiring the flush in his cheeks and the shine on his lip. “I’m just torn between reminding you of all the reasons this couldn’t possibly work and dragging you into that bed right now.”

BJ looks at the bed and goes a little more pink, which is quite a charming look for him. “As much as I don’t want to, I feel I should let you know I’ve not done this before. With a m-man.”

And Hawkeye’s heart breaks, just a little, at the bravery it must have taken BJ to admit that, and the raw courage he must have had to get through this whole day, this whole night, to lay out his heart for Hawkeye without even knowing what was meant to come next. He takes BJ’s hands in his, leads him to the closest bed, and sits him down. He stands there, hands on BJ’s shoulders, and looks down at him. “It’s okay. I’m glad you told me all this,” he waves a hand between the two of them, and BJ blushes a little more for some reason. “But it doesn’t need to go anywhere right now. Not if you don’t want.”

BJ lifts his hand, hooks a finger through a belt loop on Hawkeye’s fatigues. “The thing is, I do. I just…” he ducks his head, pressing his face against Hawkeye’s belly. When he speaks again his voice is muffled, shy. “You’re going to have to take the lead for a bit.”

Hawkeye strokes his hair, trying to get his breathing under control. Inexperienced he may be, but BJ’s warm breath through Hawkeye’s thin shirt and his hand on the jut of his hip are having an effect, and it’s been _so long_ , and it’s _BJ_. Hawkeye wants this so badly, but he wants to do it right.

“Come on, then,” he murmurs, and kneels. “Step one is taking off your shoes.”

BJ sits frozen as Hawkeye bends to untie the laces on his sneakers, resting his cheek on one knee as he works on the laces. One foot, then the other. When he sees the embroidered BFP on the sock hem, he chuckles and cups his hand around BJ’s calf, looking up -

And stops. BJ’s breathing is rapid, his eyes wide, his hands making fists in the sheets. He’s staring at Hawkeye like he’s an unexploded mortar, or maybe like a he’s a well cooked steak, it’s hard to tell. His lips are parted, and when he notices Hawkeye staring at his mouth he swallows.

Hawkeye slides his hand up the length of BJ’s thigh and smiles as BJ bites his lip. “What would you like to do first?”

A shake of the head. “I don’t know.”

“Okay, I’ll make it easier,” Hawkeye turns his head, kisses just above the knee, than again a little higher. He can smell road dust, and sweat, hear BJ’s breathing. “My mouth, or my hand?”

BJ’s breath stutters in a strange, stifled sound, and it takes him a few seconds to form words. Hawkeye realises suddenly that as long as it’s been for him, BJ hasn’t been with anyone since his one-night-dalliance with Nurse Donovan. He hasn’t had anyone near him in months, nothing but his own hand and stolen moments in the shower or in the Swamp at night when he thinks Hawkeye is asleep. No wonder he’s trembling.

BJ raises a shaky hand to touch Hawkeye’s cheek, brush his hair back from his face. He manages a faint smile, embarrassed but trying anyway: “I want to kiss you.”

Oh god, his _voice_. Hawkeye scrambles to his feet, holds out a hand. “Give me your pocket knife.”

“What?”

“Knife. Now.”

Confused, BJ digs it out of his pocket and hands it over. Hawkeye flips out the blade, bends down, and cuts through both his bootlaces, yanking them loose and kicking off his boots in short order.

“Hawk!”

“I’ll buy more tomorrow.”

He tosses the knife after the boots and reaches down to pull BJ to his feet.

“Steps two through five \- getting rid of all these -” he pushes BJ’s open fatigues off his shoulders, pulls at the hem of the pink undershirt - “In as short a time as possible, please.”

BJ starts on Hawkeye’s belt, laughing on a snatch of breath. “What’s the rush all of a sudden?”

“I’m making up for lost time,” Hawkeye yanks the shirt over BJ’s head, dropping it as he leans in, pressing open mouthed kisses to the rough stubble of BJ’s throat, “You see, I’ve been a colossal idiot.” As much as he loves the peach-fuzz whisper of a woman’s neck against his lips, he loves the rasp of stubble on his tongue. BJ drops his head back, groaning softly. “I could have been doing this instead of pining like a teenager for months.”

“You were pining?” BJ’s hands are under Hawkeye’s shirt, impossibly warm against his chest, his back. His fingers span across one pectoral, only hesitating for a moment. Hawkeye thinks of his thin patch of chest hair and thinks, of course.

He takes a second to breathe, his fingers hooked in the hem of BJ’s pants and his forehead resting on his shoulder. He wants this like a drowning man wants air, and it seems BJ does too, but again, he wants to do this right. “Honestly? I’ve wanted you practically since you arrived. But you were so -” he shakes his head, feels BJ kiss his hair. “Everything here is so awful, and you were like a piece of normality, like real life in a nightmare. I didn’t want to ruin you.” 

His pants feel too tight, his cock sensitive enough to verge on painful against the rough army issue shorts. He can see that BJ is hard too, and he desperately wants to drop to his knees and swallow him whole.

“I was watching you too,” BJ murmurs. “Not just changing or in the shower or - you have this way of going still when you smile, did you know that?” The hand on his chest strokes gently down his ribs, settles on his waist, and Hawkeye shivers. “And the number of times I wanted to just gather you up and kiss you, I could hardly stand it.”

Hawkeye looks up, finds BJ gazing at him with an expression he can’t bear to see. He feels pinned like an insect under glass as BJ dips his head and kisses him again. Lips warm and wet, the hands on his waist pulling him in gently, like something to be treasured. Protected. The desperation of a moment ago is gone but in its place is a fervour that burns, and breath is suddenly hard to come by. Their hips brush and BJ almost whimpers, and Hawkeye’s brain short-circuits.

He wrenches himself away with a will he didn’t know he had. BJ reaches a hand for him, momentarily bereft.

Hawkeye shrugs out of his fatigues, drops his t-shirt on the floor. He steps out of his pants and shorts together, kicking them aside to join the tangle of clothing. In nothing but dogtags and socks he stands and holds his hands open at his sides, letting BJ just look at him. He doubts the faint orange glow of the bedside lamp is doing much to help him, after almost two years of overwork, exhaustion, army food and constant fear. He knows his poor posture has gotten worse from working over too-low OR tables, so many days spent in surgery have made him pallid and the still has taken its toll on what muscle tone he once had.

But BJ stares as if he’s never seen anything so beautiful in his life, blue eyes lit up and a faint smile on his mouth. He reaches out again, stepping close before Hawkeye can react, wrapping his arms around him and dropping his mouth to the base of Hawkeye’s neck. They press together chest to chest, growing damp with sweat, and Hawkeye catches hold of BJ’s belt before he completely loses his mind. It’s just so good, and it’s been _so long_ -

Then BJ’s hand slides down his back, fingers spreading to span his buttock, and Hawkeye finally - _finally_ \- frees BJ’s erection from his pants and takes it in hand. BJ stifles a low, long groan into the muscle of Hawkeye’s shoulder, biting gently. “Bed. Now. Please.” 

_So much for me taking the lead_ , Hawkeye considers saying, but he doesn’t dare. Something about this still feels fragile. He backs them up a few steps, BJ kicking his pants off on the way, and they roll into the nearest bed. It’s narrow, and too short, but there’s enough space for Hawkeye to lie face to face with BJ and get a hand between them, line up their cocks together and grip them both in one loose fist.

BJ catches his breath, brow furrowing and eyes squeezed shut. “God, Hawk, I can’t -”

“It’s okay,” he lets go a moment and BJ whines, but Hawkeye spits in his palm and takes them in hand again, lifting his hips to press as close to BJ as he can. “It’s okay,” he gasps, as BJ pulls him closer still, rolling a little over him to press him into the bed. He props himself on one elbow over Hawkeye, his fingers pressing into Hawkeye’s thigh hard enough to bruise as they thrust against each other, inexpert but hungry. BJ keeps kissing him, his mouth, his cheek, his throat, and Hawkeye is distantly aware that he’s murmuring nonsense, reassurances and expletives and _yes_ _Beej_ _, more, god yes_ -

BJ stifles a groan in Hawkeye’s shoulder as he jerks once, again, and comes in a rush over Hawkeye’s belly. Then his hand is slick on Hawkeye’s cock, his grip confident and sure, and Hawkeye just has time to realise that this is how BJ touches _himself_ before he’s throwing his head back, shoving his hips up into BJ’s fist and holding his breath so he doesn’t wail.

“Yes, Hawk, that’s it,” BJ whispers, and Hawkeye loses it, barely able to press his wide open mouth against BJ’s throat before the moan is ripped from somewhere deep inside him and he comes, wave after wave of it like a thousand fireworks all going off at once.

When his vision returns, he blinks, looking up blearily at BJ’s face still hanging over him. He’s smiling, not faintly anymore but huge, that impossible grin that always seems on the verge of laughter. Hawkeye feels his face heat.

“I’m sorry.”

BJ shakes his head, confused, “What for?”

Hawkeye can’t meet his eyes, "I was meant to show _you_ a good time.”

BJ chuckles, kisses his cheek, his jaw, the sensitive point over his pulse. “You did, Hawk.”

Hawkeye wriggles, presses his mouth to the corner of BJ’s neck and shoulder, unsure if he’ll ever be able to hear that nickname again without thinking of this. He’s gratified to hear BJ sigh. “Did I meet expectations?”

BJ pulls back and looks at him again, that unbearably sincere, blue eyed gaze. “Yes. Like you wouldn’t believe.”

***

When she sees the telegram in the mailbox, its envelope smaller and squarer than the others, she shivers although the sun is warm. Not pausing to go inside, Peg tears it open and reads -

_told Hawkeye about_ _diner_ _he said he’d love to go there SW2LK_

She pauses at the last word. She’s marked plenty of her letters to BJ with SWALK, meaning _signed with a loving kiss_. So this is… two loving kisses?

Peg takes a deep breath, pressing the telegram to her chest. She'd feared that when it happened she might be jealous after all, but mostly she finds she’s relieved. Relieved that BJ finally has someone to take care of him, relieved that Hawkeye seems willing to welcome her into his life as well, and overwhelmingly relieved that she’d read the situation right all along.

She slots the telegram back into the envelope, smiling, and heads back into the house.


	2. Chapter 2

BJ stands frowning into the tiny, discoloured mirror, watching his own reflection as he brushes his teeth. He keeps wondering if there’s anything different about him now. He knows there’s not, that this is who he’s always been, but waking up with an armful of Hawkeye and the remnants of what they’d done last night dry on his belly has given the idea more weight. He thinks of being seventeen again, the morning after taking Dorothy out to the drive-in and getting to kiss someone for the first time. He’d sat there at the kitchen table and eaten cereal and felt like it had been branded across his face, like surely anyone could tell just by looking at him that he was new, changed, more grown up.

And now. He scowls at the lines across his forehead, the wisps of grey above his ears. He is grown up. He feels ancient, wrung out, like the last eighteen months have aged him five years. And at the same time he has no idea what he’s doing.

He rinses out his mouth, scrubs his moustache dry on the sleeve of his robe, and heads back to the room. He’s not taken two steps into the hallway before he sees Hawk slipping out of their room at the other end, dressed in only his robe and socks.

BJ feels his face heat, and he’s suddenly painfully aware of how he’s walking, the placement of his hands, wondering what the expression is on his face. Hawk catches his eye and grins easily, raising his eyebrows.

“Morning, sleep well?”

“Yeah, you?”

Hawk raises one shoulder in that little shrug he does sometimes, rolling his eyes theatrically, “As if on a cloud! A narrow, squeaky, cloud!”

BJ smiles stiffly, wanting badly to join in like always with a snappy rejoinder. But nothing comes to mind.

Hawk shifts his weight a little, looking awkward. “Uh, do you mind? A full bladder waits for no man.”

BJ practically throws himself to the side, making space for Hawk to pass him, which he does with a confused glance. BJ hurries to their room, sure his face must be beet red.

Once inside he freezes in agonised indecision. It’s barely dawn, should he get back into bed? Would that be too eager, too pathetic? So should he get dressed? But what if Hawk thinks he regrets everything? He feels too tall, too broad, all feet and elbows in the cramped room. He takes a step toward the bed, stops. Turns to his suitcase, stops.

When he hears Hawkeye’s whistle coming back down the hall he panics and flings himself into bed, his back against the headboard and his robe tangling around his legs as he wrenches the covers up to his chest with enough strength to hear a seam give. The door opens and closes, and Hawk turns to look at him. BJ’s not sure what it is that he sees but Hawk smiles, creeps over to sit at the edge of the bed like BJ’s a bird who might fly away, and puts a hand on his.

“Hey Beej, take a breath.”

BJ scrubs his other hand across his face, embarrassed. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be, it’s okay. You want me to give you some space to get dressed?”

“What?”

Hawkeye gestures to the blanket BJ has pulled up almost to his chin. “You seem a little shy there, buddy.”

Instantly BJ wants to hide even more, but he pushes the blanket a little away from him, trying to sit up straighter. He sees Hawk’s gaze flick over his bare chest, then back up to his face. He feels somehow more exposed now than when he was naked last night, and he has no idea what to do about it.

“You good?” Hawk asks, his voice very soft.

“Yeah,” BJ turns his hand upwards, interlaces Hawk’s fingers in his. “This is just…”

“It’s all new,” there’s a wistful note to the words, and BJ looks up to see Hawk looking at him, the faintest smile on his mouth. BJ can’t take it.

“I’m so scared I’m going to screw this up,” he confesses to their hands on the faded blanket. Hawkeye’s other hand comes to cover his, warm. “I took so long to tell you, I don’t want it to end because I do something stupid.”

Hawk stands suddenly, pulling the blanket back and clambering in on top of him, kneeling across his lap and wrapping arms around his shoulders. BJ presses his face against Hawk’s throat, feeling stubble on his lips and the jump of his adam’s apple as he swallows, and Hawk lets out a long, low sigh.

“It’s okay,” Hawk murmurs, “I’m not going anywhere.”

And BJ’s hands grasp handfuls of Hawk’s robe in desperate silence, because that’s not a promise that’s safe to make but BJ believes him anyway, against all his better sense. He holds Hawk tighter, presses a kiss to the underside of his jaw. Hawk smooths back his hair, cradles his head, kneads small circles into the knotted muscles of his shoulders. He kisses Hawk again, because he’s there and because he can - _finally_ , he can - and Hawk almost purrs.

He’s so much broader than BJ is used to, and obviously taller, and he smells different. Even in his lap like this Peg was only as tall as he was, and he could wrap her up so tightly it felt like his arms could go around her twice. And she didn’t smell like soy sauce or road dust or Korea. He pulls at the collar of Hawk’s robe, pressing lips to the base of his throat as Hawk tilts his head to give him access, and BJ realises that he can’t remember what Peg smelt like at all.

He’ll remember when he goes home. When they both do. They can rediscover her together.

Hawkeye makes a fist in his hair and BJ tries not to whimper at the unfamiliar sensation, at the current that arcs through him and has him thrust up against Hawk, feeling him hard against BJ’s stomach.

“Hold on a second,” Hawkeye gasps, and BJ stares up at him with his mouth open. Hawk looks down, blue eyes huge and dark, hair hanging across his forehead in a tangle, his cheeks flushed. BJ reaches up, brushes the hair to the side, and Hawk closes his eyes a moment. “I had a plan for this next part but you’re making it hard to remember.”

“A plan?” BJ hardly recognises his own voice.

“There’s something I’ve wanted to do for a long time -” He must see BJ’s uncertainty because he stops quickly, putting a hand on BJ’s chest. “Hey, it’s okay. There’s lots of stuff guys can do together, not all of it is for everyone, and we don’t have to do it all this R&R.”

Hawkeye leans back, starting to squirm out of his robe. BJ’s hands lift almost of their own accord, stroking across Hawk’s bare chest and over the slope of his shoulders just to see him smile. BJ’s seen him so pale at the end of winter that veins showed faintly blue through his skin, but now he’s tinged a splotchy pink that shouldn’t be attractive yet really _really_ is, and when Hawk sees BJ staring he blushes even pinker. His mouth opens in what is surely about to be a quippy distraction, but BJ runs a hand down Hawk’s stomach to take his cock in a firm grip and Hawk’s whole face contorts in pleasure, eyes shut and his teeth in his lip.

“Well not with that attitude we’re not,” BJ grins, feeling smug.

Hawk’s eyes fly open and his hand catches BJ’s wrist. “You are - _ungf_ \- you’re _cheating_ good sir.”

“Should I stop?”

“Ye - _fuck_ \- no -” Hawk bows his forehead against BJ’s, sweat damp, and makes a stifled whine in his throat. BJ can’t get enough of seeing him, hearing him, and the knowledge that a few kisses and just _one_ of BJ’s hands can unravel Hawk this far is mindboggling. What might he manage with two?

They’re so close together that the base of BJ’s thumb is stroking the underside of his own cock and it’s maddeningly not enough. His hips jerk, seeking more, and the movement seems to remind Hawk of something because his hand on BJ’s wrist clenches, and BJ stills immediately.

“Plan,” Hawkeye gasps, and shoves himself back from BJ as if he’s yanking off a band-aid. The bed creaks alarmingly as he flails with his robe, first wrenching his arms from the sleeves then trying to yank the hem free from the tangle of sheets. BJ hears threads pop, and catches Hawk’s shoulder to get his attention.

“Hey buddy, take a breath.”

Hawkeye laughs, still pink cheeked. “Let’s see how well you can get undressed when all your blood has been redirected from your brain.”

At length they both have to clamber out of bed to sort themselves out, Hawkeye tossing their robes aside while BJ makes an effort to fix the straight-jacket tangle of the sheets. When he goes to get back in, Hawk touches his arm.

“Me first. Plan, remember?” And he grabs the pillow from the other bed, plumping it before getting in and shoving it behind his head. “Okay, now you. Kneel here.” And he pats the mattress to either side of his ribs.

BJ shivers in the comparative cool of the room, suddenly nervous. He’s got an inkling of what’s coming but it’s not the way he’s ever done it before, and he feels out of his depth. Last night had been a terrifying jumble of wonder but once he’d figured out he kind of already knew what to do with his hands, it hadn’t been so difficult. Now Hawk’s offering something that BJ really does want but doesn’t know how to take and oh shit, he’s been standing here too long.

He climbs into the bed, throwing a leg over Hawk to kneel astride his chest, keeping his weight on his knees. He doesn’t know where to look for a moment but then feels a hand on his thigh, and looks down.

Hawkeye is gazing back up at him, face still flushed and dark hair falling back from eyes too bright. He places his hands on BJ’s hips, stroking small circles with his thumbs. “You can lean on the wall if you need to. Take all the time you need.”

BJ swallows, braces one hand on the bedframe and one on the wall.

Hawk licks his lips. “You look _very_ good from this angle, just so you know.”

Every time Hawk speaks there’s the warmth of his breath on BJ’s cock, and it’s the best kind of torture. He manages to smile, and Hawk grins back.

“You okay?”

BJ nods.

Hawkeye shimmies up a little further on the pillows and slides one hand to grasp the base of BJ’s cock. BJ flinches, an aborted thrust at the touch, and Hawk holds him tighter.

“It’s alright, you’re allowed to move. With my hand here you don’t have to worry about hurting me.”

“Wha-?”

But then Hawk’s mouth is on him and the word dies in shocked silence. It’s hot, and wet, and the firm grip of Hawk’s fist next to the softness of his tongue is just so, _so_ \- BJ can hardly breathe.

The hand on his hip moves to his ass, long fingers spanning the muscle and urging him to move. He tries a small, slow, thrust, and another, and Hawkeye hums in approval. With his hand on BJ’s cock (now squeezing in time with the thrusts, _fuck_ ), Hawkeye can control the depth, and BJ relaxes, giving in to it. He drops his forehead to lean on his arm, feeling the ache of muscles that he hasn’t used like this in over a year, and the deep, satisfying rightness of sinking into a sweet, wet, heat with every thrust.

Then Hawkeye’s hand moves again, skimming over BJ’s hip and between his legs, cupping his balls in a smooth palm and BJ’s eyes snap open. Hawkeye is looking up at him, mouth full and a shine of spit on one cheek, and Hawkeye winks as he moves his hand. BJ slaps a hand over his mouth, only just catching the laugh-turned-moan as suddenly everything is more intense, Hawk gripping him and cradling him and pressing fingertips into the crux of him, and he tries to pull away, to say some warning, but Hawk doesn’t let him go. BJ can only hold his breath and close his eyes as the wave takes him and he comes into Hawk’s mouth, hips stuttering and Hawk’s clever fingertips drawing the aftershocks out of him with increasing gentleness. Finally Hawk pulls back, kisses his stomach, and somehow helps BJ down to curl up against his chest.

Overcome, BJ presses his cheek against Hawk’s clavicle and tries to breathe, wondering why he feels like crying. Hawkeye soothes him with long, slow strokes down his back, murmuring over and over “It’s okay, you’re okay.”

“Are you -” he thinks to ask, but Hawkeye cuts him off.

“I’ll keep, Beej. Don’t worry about it.”

BJ nods, feeling guilty but glad. He’s not sure he could move right now.

When BJ starts to shiver Hawkeye reaches for the blanket and pulls it up around them both, turning his back and pulling BJ’s arm around his chest. BJ presses lips against the back of Hawk’s neck, black and silver hairs tickling his nose, and holds him closer. Maybe later he’ll be brave enough to return the favour. They have time. They don’t have to head back until tomorrow.

He tries not to think about what happens then.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> CW for brief mention of domestic violence.

BJ seems to fall asleep quickly, but Hawkeye finds himself wide awake and staring at the wall. There’s the obvious reason, but even when that subsides he’s still awake, alert, aware of every rise and fall of breath, every minute shift in position as the man behind him slides into deeper and deeper sleep. The hand against Hawkeye’s chest spams, makes a loose fist, relaxes.

Hawkeye doesn’t move.

Just 24 hours earlier he’d been throwing clothes into a suitcase and expounding on the virtues of Seoul, of showers that lasted more than three minutes and walls that actually kept the weather out. He’s pretty sure he’d made a joke about running into a nurse who hadn’t met him yet, about maybe getting lucky.

Had BJ been more quiet than usual, as they packed? Had he been rehearsing that speech from last night, trying to figure out what to say? What was safe to say? If Hawkeye was a safe person to trust?

Letter number six, _six_ , of _eighty-two_. God, either that Peggy Hunnicutt is clairvoyant or Hawkeye’s fucking blind. How had he not seen this coming? How had BJ been feeling like this for months, and he’d not realised? Maybe BJ’s a better liar than he lets on. Maybe the evidence had been there and Hawkeye had ignored it. Because BJ was married, _is_ married, and Hawkeye doesn’t mess with married. Even if he wants to. Because someone who’ll turn their back on a vow like that isn’t someone Hawkeye can trust.

But this is a different manner of beast entirely. BJ’s not the first army man Hawkeye’s been with but the others were brief encounters, twenty minutes in the dark of a crash-pad in Tokyo or somewhere equally anonymous. No names, no expectations beyond secrecy. No falling asleep in his arms. No message from the wife at home, not just permission, but _welcome_.

How on earth is this going to work? Because BJ loves at 100 miles an hour or not at all, and Hawkeye is sure he wouldn’t have started this if he didn’t want it to last. But how can it? Mill Valley and Crabapple Cove are about as far apart as it’s possible to be while staying in the continental US. And BJ has a wife, and a _kid_ , and what does he expect the future is supposed to look like?

_I feel he’s part of our family already._

Hawkeye is going to have a few words to say to Peg, the moment he can figure out how to get them past the censors.

In the meantime. He doesn’t want to, he _really_ doesn’t want to, but he’s going to have to have a few words with BJ.

It’s about trust.

***

They make it out of the hotel midmorning, Hawkeye’s boots flapping loosely around his ankles, and he immediately suggests they split up to run errands and meet back at the hotel for lunch. He says it like it just makes sense that way, but among other reasons it’s also because BJ keeps looking at Hawk’s trailing bootlaces and blushing and if Hawkeye has to keep looking at that face he’s going to lose it. ( _I’ll keep_ has not yet come, and he’s starting to regret his chivalry.) So as BJ heads off to find the telegram office, Hawkeye turns in the opposite direction and for a few minutes just walks without purpose. After months on end seeing seemingly nothing but dirt, tents, and blood, the city is a relief. A crowded, cacophonous, smelly relief. Hawkeye is half in love with it based on nothing but novelty. He walks past a space between two buildings where South Korean and UN flags are strung up like drying laundry. A woman saunters past him with a bundle balanced on her head. An old man is selling flowers in a stall on the corner.

He stops by it for a moment, just looking at the colours. Yellow, and pink, and white that’s somehow so much cleaner than the flags hanging above the dust and smog in the street. But he doesn’t buy any. He can hardly take them back to the hotel.

Hawkeye shoves his hands in his pockets, frowns, and keeps walking. The flapping of his boots is just annoying, now. At the first storefront that looks likely to sell bootlaces, he turns on his heel and heads in.

***

He meets BJ out front of the hotel with new laces tied up tight and two paper bags shoved under his arm. They get burgers from a place across the street that’s somehow even worse than Rosie’s, and BJ talks about how Seoul compares to San Francisco and smiles at him over his beer. Hawkeye bolts his food while trying not to taste it, finding himself utterly unable to contribute to any kind of conversation.

After a moment’s silence he sees BJ reach across the table like he’s about to take Hawkeye’s hand, “Hey, is everything -”

Hawkeye shoves his chair back almost hard enough to push it over, throwing money on the table and scooping up his shopping. BJ looks up, startled and concerned.

“Not here,” Hawkeye manages to get out. “Come on.”

***

He’s the first through the door of their room, but after dropping the paper bags on top of his open suitcase Hawkeye makes no move to sit. BJ closes the door and hesitates a moment, watching as Hawkeye frets in place against the opposite wall. He wants to pace, but that would mean walking closer to BJ and that’s an action that seems fraught right now.

“So are you going to tell me what’s eating you?” BJ asks at length. “Or am I supposed to guess?”

“Just -” Hawkeye makes a strangled noise, and waves a hand toward the still-unmade bed. “Go sit down.”

Slowly, BJ moves away, straightening the tangled sheets. Hawkeye tucks his hands in his own armpits, imagining he can smell the sweat and sex from last night, from this morning. BJ turns, perching on the edge of the mattress, and Hawkeye turns away rather than see the confused frown on his face.

Hawkeye starts pacing, relieved to be moving as his feet try to keep up with his mouth. “I gotta - we both have to talk about some things. I don’t want to, and you’ve met me before so you _must_ know I don’t want to, but we gotta. You went back to sleep this morning but I didn’t, you see, so I got a head-start on worrying.”

“About?” BJ’s voice has dropped into that register he uses with scared patients, the kids so young they should be eating their sandwiches with the crusts cut off. Hawkeye should probably find it patronising.

“You’ve had a few months on me to consider how this is going to work, and in a minute you can catch me up on all that. But there’s something I’ll bet you haven’t thought of and I know you haven’t because we never talked about it. I know you said you were sorry but we never _talked_ about it,” Hawkeye pushes both hands through his hair, raking it back from his face, and as he turns to retrace his steps again he catches a glimpse of BJ, white knuckled, wide eyed and tense. “I’ve told you about my Dad, right? How we’re close?”

BJ nods, obviously confused but not asking questions right now.

“We weren’t always. Mom died when I was a kid. You know that too. What I don’t talk about is how afterwards it seemed the only thing Dad knew how to feel was anger. And he wasn’t good at talking about his feelings, never has been.” He laughs, humourlessly. “Oh, but he could show them.”

BJ, hands between his knees, has gone extremely still.

“He’d yell. He broke things. Put a fist through the door of a cabinet one time. And I mean, I wasn’t a barrel of laughs either, I think we made each other worse. But I was a kid. He was the _adult_.” He crosses his arms closely around his own ribs. “One morning when I was fifteen we were standing in the kitchen screaming at each other. And he lifted his hand, like this,” Hawkeye unfolds just enough to raise his left arm, fist clenched as if to strike a backhanded blow at the wall.

BJ says nothing.

“And I glared at him and I said, _if you hit me I’ll leave and never come back_. And he didn’t. When I came home from school he was still at the kitchen table, looking like he’d spent the whole day crying. He never so much as raised his voice ever again. And, you know,” Hawkeye wraps his fatigues more tightly around himself, trying not to shiver, “I haven’t thought about that day in years. But then after Radar went home…”

He dares a look at BJ. He’s gone pale under the tan, his expression stark. There’s no need to ask if he knows what Hawkeye is talking about.

Hawkeye closes his eyes, scrubs a palm across his face. “I know you were drunk, I know you were missing Erin. I know you already said you’re sorry. I know I said it was all right. But it’s not, BJ.” He looks up. “ _You hit me_. And you can’t ever, _ever_ , do that again.”

“I’m sorry,” BJ’s voice is barely a whisper, “I didn’t know.” He looks distraught. Hawkeye thinks back over the conversation, about him bringing up fathers and Erin and leaving forever, all at once, and knows without asking where BJ’s fears have gone. He hates himself a little for leading them there on purpose.

Hawkeye moves to sit on the other bed, knee to knee with BJ but not quite touching him.

“I’m sorry,” BJ says again. “I don’t know what I was thinking -” he reaches for Hawkeye’s fingers, but Hawkeye sits back, moving his hands out of reach. BJ clasps his hands together tightly, covering his mouth. _I don’t want it to_ _end_ _because I do something stupid_ , he’d said this morning. How was he to have known that he already had? “I’m _sorry_. I don’t know how to make this better.”

“You’ve made it better every day by not doing it since, and you’ll keep on doing that. I know neither of us is very good at talking about this kind of thing but we’ve got to try to use words because fists are not going to work for me.”

“I promise.”

Hawkeye holds out his hands and BJ takes them in both of his, bows his head over them. When he speaks his voice is very soft.

“How long have you been thinking about this?”

“I haven’t been, not really. And I think if we were just going to be friends,” he squeezes BJ’s fingers gently, “it might never have come up.”

BJ’s forehead is against Hawkeye’s knuckles, his brow furrowed. Hawkeye’s not quite sure he’s listening.

“I gotta ask,” he whispers, “have you ever hit Peg?”

BJ looks up then, eyes wide and horrified, shaking his head before he’s even opened his mouth to speak. “No! No, I would never, I love -” he falls silent abruptly. His hands, gripping Hawkeye’s, seize tightly. “That’s not what I meant.”

Hawkeye clenches his teeth, closes his eyes. He wants his hands back, wants to move, wants space and distance. He could have just not asked. He could have done without proof that no matter how much BJ might care, Hawkeye isn’t on the same level as his wife. He could have just left well enough alone. But he never has been one to leave a scab unpicked.

BJ is still holding his hands.

“Hawk, when Peggy and I argue she leaves the room. I have to follow her to even find out what I did wrong. When I -” he swallows audibly, “- when I hit you, I felt cornered. And that’s not an excuse! But with everything that had happened… I’ve never hit Peg, Hawk, but there’s no war in California. I’m so sorry I hurt you, I’ll never stop being sorry, but you and I are living in a different kind of world over here.”

“And you love her.”

There’s a long silence.

“Hawk,” BJ’s voice is so, so soft. “Do you think I don’t love you?”

Hawkeye opens his eyes as his hands are released, only to find BJ lifting his chin with his fingertips, his face inches away. There are tears brimming in his eyes, or maybe Hawkeye’s imagining that because it’s suddenly hard to see. He wants to wipe his face but that would mean admitting that he’s crying and anyway his hands are shaking too hard.

BJ stands, taking Hawkeye by the arms to lift him and gathering him in, not to kiss but just to hold. He presses his face to the side of Hawkeye’s neck and Hawkeye hides against BJ’s shoulder, both of them trembling and silent. BJ’s hands make stuttery little circles on Hawkeye’s lower back and Hawkeye squeezes his eyes shut tight, gripping fistfuls of BJ’s shirt. He doesn’t want to ask. He’d give anything not to ask. But the words come out anyway, muffled against BJ’s throat.

“Do you?”

One hand lifts to stroke back his hair, again, and again.

“I do, Hawk. I wouldn’t have risked all this if I weren’t sure.”

Hawkeye presses his face harder against BJ’s shoulder, hauling him closer as if he can make the two of them occupy the same space. BJ just gathers him in, kissing his hair, his cheek, wiping away the tears he can reach, and Hawkeye tries not to sob. He’s not sure how this is happening. Or even if it is. It hardly seems real. But BJ’s moustache tickles his forehead, deft fingers comb through his hair, and the broad hand against his hip slides under his shirt, impossibly warm. Hawkeye feels his legs hit the bed behind him and his knees crumple. BJ catches him, lays him down gently, lies down beside him. Propped on one elbow, he bends down to kiss Hawkeye, his other hand stroking slowly down the length of Hawkeye’s chest and stomach. Hawkeye writhes, tears still leaking from the corners of his eyes and both his hands clutching at BJ wherever he can reach.

“Ssh, Hawk. It’s alright.”

In some distant corner of his mind Hawkeye’s amused that despite having had sex with a man all of twice BJ has nonetheless taken to it like a duck to water, soothing Hawk with gentle touches while kissing him slowly and thoroughly. Perhaps it’s just in his nature to care for people. Ordinarily Hawkeye’d never be this passive, but right now the weight of BJ’s hand on his stomach seems to be all that’s keeping him from falling apart, so he stays still and lets himself be held, lets BJ touch him. His eyes shut, his senses narrow to the heat of BJ’s mouth on his, the nip of teeth at his lip, and the sudden shiver of cool air as BJ pulls up his shirt. A fingertip slips beneath the waistband of his pants and Hawkeye jerks, his stomach spasming.

One hand smooths back his hair as BJ touches his tongue to the corner of Hawkeye’s mouth, and he parts his lips willingly. The clink of his belt buckle is loud in the quiet room. He catches fistfuls of BJ’s shirt and lifts his hips, lifts his chin to kiss him more deeply as BJ slides a hand into Hawkeye’s shorts and cups his palm over him. Smooth fingers are almost cool against the heat of his cock and Hawkeye tries not to whimper, twitching.

“Hawk,” BJ’s voice has an edge to it, and Hawkeye could happily do nothing for the rest of his life but listen to BJ say his name like that again and again. “Look at me.”

He opens his eyes, blinking. Afternoon sunlight shafts through the slatted blinds, catching BJ’s hair in gold and turning his eyes ocean green. His lips are kiss-bruised and wet, and when he sees Hawkeye looking at his mouth he licks them as if nervous.

“Can I…?” he trails off, glancing down at his hand in Hawkeye’s pants.

“If -” Hawkeye’s throat catches, he has to try again. “If you want.”

“Do _you_ want me to?”

At that Hawkeye has to smile, although it feels faint and shaky. As if he hasn’t lain awake a hundred nights wondering what it would be like.

He nods.

BJ shifts his weight, pushing Hawkeye’s shirt up to get access to more skin, bending his head to kiss along the same path his hand was stroking before. Damp, openmouthed kisses down the centre of Hawkeye’s abdomen leave a line of coolness when breath ghosts across his skin, and he shivers. BJ moves his hand, takes a hold of the waistband of Hawkeye’s pants, and Hawkeye obligingly lifts his hips as BJ slides them down. BJ licks his lips again, seeming suddenly uncertain.

Hawkeye reaches down, puts a hand on BJ’s hair. “You don’t have to.”

BJ looks back up at him, smiling crookedly even as he blushes. “Just not sure where to start.”

But before Hawkeye can respond, BJ’s already taken the shaft of Hawkeye’s cock in that sure, firm grip, and his lips have closed over the head. Hawkeye grabs a handful of blanket, trying not to buck up into that wet heat, trying not to pull on BJ’s hair. From the faint, stifled moan, he’s only partly successful. Belatedly he lets go, smooths the tawny hair down.

BJ looks up, concerned, “Did I do it wrong?”

Hawkeye laughs weakly. “You just surprised me. It’s been a while.”

He’s surprised to see a furrow appear on BJ’s forehead, a darkening of expression. But BJ’s grip tightens and Hawkeye grits his teeth, head falling back as he inhales sharply, and he forgets the possessive look as BJ’s lips and tongue cover him again.

The motions are inexpert but at this point Hawkeye doesn’t remotely care, it’s warm and wet and it’s friction and it’s _BJ_ , and his thumb strokes the underside of Hawkeye’s cock in a way that should frankly be illegal. He takes a little more until he’s covering all of Hawkeye with his hand and his lips, moving up and down, and Hawkeye covers his mouth with both hands, trying to concentrate on breathing so he doesn’t moan. 

BJ lifts his head, his hand moving more easily over spit-slicked skin. “It’s the middle of the afternoon. No one’s here but us. You don’t have to be silent.”

“If - if I start I - _fuck_ \- I don’t know if I can stop.” Something taps his elbow. Hawkeye looks down, sees BJ reaching, and lets him take his hand. Their fingers interlace.

“But if I can’t hear you, how will I know if I’m doing it right?”

“I -” Hawkeye barely gets the word out before BJ’s mouth is on him again, his eyes still gazing up at him and his hand holding tightly to Hawkeye’s. Hawkeye bites back a groan, watching helplessly. And at that point BJ apparently realises that suction is a thing and Hawkeye falls back with a gasp, hips jerking. His hand clenches on BJ’s, his knuckles white. “I’m - _fuck, BJ, please_ \- I’m close -”

BJ just keeps going, the span of his hand broad and firm and his tongue flush against Hawkeye’s skin, and Hawkeye wants to make it last but he can’t. He closes his eyes, one hand a fist in the blankets, feeling his breath shudder out of him in a long, low groan as he comes, heels digging into the mattress. BJ’s hand in his is like a vice, holding so tight his fingers are going numb.

At length BJ pulls off him carefully, swallowing.

Hawkeye, wiping a hand over his face, frowns at him with concern. “You okay?”

A shrug. “Not what I expected.”

“You didn’t have to.”

“Don’t worry about it.” BJ kisses the bare skin of his hip, and Hawkeye shivers. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah, just…” Hawkeye looks away. He feels fragile, exposed, and doesn’t know what to do about it.

“Here,” BJ sits up, turns his back. He starts untying Hawkeye’s laces, taking his boots off one by one. “It’s a while until dinner time. We could take a nap until then.”

Hawkeye doesn’t answer, just lets BJ undress him to his underwear and help him into the bed. Then BJ gets undressed himself, and closes the blinds. But when he goes to get into the other bed Hawkeye lifts the edge of the blanket silently.

BJ stands there a moment. “Are you sure?”

Hawkeye nods.

BJ climbs in, long limbs tangling with Hawkeye’s, one arm draped over his waist. Hawkeye, still overcome, burrows into the pillow and tucks his head under BJ’s chin. BJ rubs his back slowly, and if he notices the hitch in Hawkeye’s breath, or a sniffle, he doesn’t say anything.

**Author's Note:**

> (for disaster blogging of various fandoms you can find me at acrossthetracksrebounding.tumblr.com)


End file.
